


there's going to be a party when the wolf comes home

by Stratisphyre



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21578629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stratisphyre/pseuds/Stratisphyre
Summary: When the ID came back, Gil sat at his desk for a few precious minutes of gobsmacked silence. He read and re-read the name on the grainy scan of the driver’s license forwarded to his email and sat back in his chair.He aged twenty years between standing from his desk and crossing the bullpen.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 19
Kudos: 125
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	there's going to be a party when the wolf comes home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BiffElderberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiffElderberry/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, BiffElderberry! I was inspired by a couple of your prompts, and it sort of turned into a lengthy casefic on top of everything else. I share your unexpected love for this show, and I was so glad to get to write this for you!
> 
> This was written prior to the mid-season finale, and will be horribly jossed by everything after about episode nine. I hope it's enjoyable anyway!
> 
> I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge the amazing Yuletide admins for putting this together every year, which I can only imagine to be like herding hyperactive cats.

They got the call first thing in the morning, when the sun was barely managing to eke out a few rays over the buildings surrounding the precinct. Gil was already on his fourth cup of coffee for the morning, his glare swinging between the half-empty mug and his computer screen. 

He was almost relieved when they were called out. Almost. And damn, but it felt terrible. 

He passed the location onto Malcolm, and was somehow wasn't surprised to find him waiting for them when they arrived. 

“I hate neighbourhoods like this,” JT muttered under his breath. 

Malcolm inclined his head. “One more victim of unfortunate gentrification… Slap a coat of paint on it and call it Carnegie Hill 2.0.” The rings beneath Malcolm’s eyes were darker than average—Gil hesitated to describe them as ‘normal,’ though with how long they’d been lurking it might’ve been the better of the two descriptors—and there was a certain manic air about him. “Shut down all the mom and pop bodegas, open cupcake shops and hope the buttercream holds up better on the baking than on the buildings.” 

At least he wasn’t handing out lollipops this time. 

“Call came in about half an hour ago,” Dani said. “Vic is mid- to late-thirties. White. Brunette. Looks to be in reasonably good shape.”

They passed through the doors of the recently-refurbished office building. The ground floor was mostly taken up by retailers—including a cupcake shop, inviting people in with cheerful pink font—and they made their way up to the second floor via a stairwell which’d obviously missed the decorative touch-ups. 

“No cameras,” Gil noted aloud. “Who found the body?” 

Dani glanced at her notes. “The cleaners. The office space is leased, but the tenants haven’t moved in yet.” 

“Was it a recent thing?” Malcolm asked. 

“Ink’s still dry on the paperwork,” Dani nodded. 

“Bet they’re wishing they’d waited a bit longer.” 

The smell of wet pennies and meat slapped Gil in the face as they entered the scene. The space was cavernously open; the sort of office space where you could tuck about twenty cheap desks into an overcrowded bullpen and call it a day. A long line of windows directly faced the next building on the block, though white roller shades had been pulled most of the way down, and he couldn’t see much detail under the scant foot of space they’d left at the bottom. Unlikely there’d be any witnesses with the awkward angle. 

The body waited for them in the middle of the room. Gil’d been briefed, but a briefing never made the reality any easier to stomach. 

Malcolm was the only one who appeared unphased. Eventually Gil was going to figure out whether he found it reassuring or disturbing. 

“It’s a garden box,” Malcolm hummed, tilting his head left and right, as though the minute shifts of his eyes would give him additional insight. Maybe it did. “Do we know if the chest cavity is completely hollowed out, or are the flowers sitting on top?” 

Dr. Tanaka looked up from where she was crouched down beside the body. “Completely hollowed out. No signs of the organs anywhere.” 

Malcolm approached to squat down beside her, peering at the flowers. They were pretty; Gil even knew one of them. Black-eyed Susans hadn’t been Jackie’s favourite flower, to put it mildly. He’d purchased her a bouquet once, during one of their first dates, and she smiled the blandest smile he’d seen on her face in three weeks, and put them in a dry vase. 

Jackie, as it turned out, preferred peonies. 

The other flowers were unfamiliar; small, star-shaped purple things with spikes growing out around the stigma. They might’ve been pretty, if they hadn’t been planted in a dead man’s chest cavity. 

“The killer really went all out,” Malcolm mused. 

“How do you mean?” Gil asked. 

“Look… these aren’t cut. They’re still growing. He had to cut the victim open, scoop everything out, fill him with topsoil, and then replant the flowers.”

“Initial thoughts?” 

Malcolm sat back on his heels, mouth pursed. “To be determined.” He tilted his head again. “I’d love to know what those flowers are.” 

“You think they mean something?” 

“With the amount of care he’s put into this? Yeah. I’d say they have to.” 

* * *

When the ID came back, Gil sat at his desk for a few precious minutes of gobsmacked silence. He read and re-read the name on the grainy scan of the driver’s license forwarded to his email and sat back in his chair. 

Across the bullpen, JT and Dani were ensconced in the conference room, waiting for Malcolm to do his magic. The profiler himself was staring at their whiteboard, pictures of the victim from countless angles pinned in place for examination. Someone had sketched out the purple flowers, still unidentified as they pooled the majority of their resources into finding their victim a name. 

Gil watched Malcolm’s mouth move, though he wasn’t much of a lipreader. Malcolm was expressive to a fault; kid probably thought he could play cards well because he could read the table, but Gil was willing to bet he had a shit poker face and bid based on how much he liked the people he was playing with. 

His heart thudded painfully against his ribcage; no point putting it off. 

He aged twenty years between standing from his desk and crossing the bullpen. Delivering difficult news to a grieving family was one thing. This kind of shattering information, presented to someone he genuinely cared for, was an entirely different beast.

“ID came back,” he announced, walking into the conference room. JT and Dani snapped to attention. Malcolm barley looked away from the board. “Vic is Malcolm Whitly, age thirty-six, mail carrier from Queens.”

Very slowly, Malcolm turned to look at him. “What.”

“What?” Dani and JT echoed, almost simultaneously. 

“Reported missing by his wife, Maria Whitly, two days ago when he failed to return from his route.” Gil frowned grimly. “She’ll be coming by to identify the body later on today.” 

“One hell of a coincidence,” JT muttered. 

“Is it?” Dani asked, attention fixed on Malcolm. 

“Whitly isn’t my name,” Malcolm said, at length, once he noticed everyone staring at him. “Hasn’t been for over a decade. JT’s right—it’s a coincidence. Let’s focus on the facts.” 

The fact, Gil thought, was that Malcolm was shaken and trying not to show it. While he’d returned his gaze to the whiteboard, Gil could tell he wasn’t seeing it. His shoulders were tensed practically to his ears, and the small tremour must’ve returned to his hands, because the only time he stuck them into his pockets was when he was trying to hide it. Maybe because this was a glimpse into what his future might’ve been. Gil never believed the Surgeon would cut up his own kid—he fancied knew Martin Whitly well enough to know the man would probably go completely ballistic at the mere suggestion of it—but who knew what he could have been driven to if he’d been left free? 

“We’ll treat it as coincidence. For now,” Gil said, when it looked as though Dani was about to pipe up. “Dani, you and JT talk to Mrs. Whitly when she gets here. Malcolm—” 

Malcolm interrupted, “The killer is a florist, or someone who works in a similar position. The flowers are all in prime condition, and he took a lot of care replanting them. The body is meant as a gift for someone. The perfect sentimental show of affection.” 

“For who?” JT asked.

Malcolm shrugged. “Figure that out, and we’ll probably find our killer.” 

* * *

Malcolm looked unsurprised when Gil showed up at his apartment only an hour after he’d left the precinct. He led Gil through to his sitting room and gestured him into one of his buttery-soft leather couches. “Drink?”

“Please.”

He’d known Malcolm long enough to know he’d never gotten over the cheap shit he enjoyed in college—Gil would not be surprised to find Bacardi coolers taking up space next to what was probably a ridiculous amount of condiments in what was likely an otherwise empty fridge—but stocked the good stuff for his mother’s frequent drop ins. True to form, Malcolm pushed a tumbler of something amber into his hands, replete with scotch rocks.

“Oh, here.” Malcolm dipped his finger into a nearby glass of water and slid his fingertip along the top of Gil’s glass. A single droplet crept down the side until it slid effortlessly into the waiting… scotch? “Whisky,” Malcolm corrected when he asked. “Nikka Taketsuru twenty-one year pure malt. My mother won’t drink it. Insists whisky should come from Scotland or nowhere.” He settled into his own chair across from Gil, another glass hanging untouched in his hands.

“Delicious,” Gil declared after a small sip. It stuck around on his palate longer than he expected, leaving traces of nuts and woodsy spice hanging in his cheeks. 

“I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not a big deal,” Malcolm insisted a few moments later, studying the contents of his glass.

“A window box of a corpse with your name shows up and it’s not a big deal?” 

“It’s a coincidence.”

“We’re treating it as a coincidence,” Gil corrected. 

Malcolm rolled his eyes, but obviously remembered about the better part of valour.

“We got a hit on the flowers, finally,” Gil continued. Malcolm muttered something under his breath about Google, which Gil generously chose to ignore. “They’re called clematis. Hadn’t heard of them before now.”

“They don’t fit,” Malcolm said, words tumbling out of his mouth before Gil finished speaking. “Purple and yellow is a good combination, but in this instance the shading is all off. The killer is deliberate. No one spends that long setting up such an elaborate scene and randomly chooses which flowers to include. If he wanted the… clematis? Then he should’ve picked something with complementary colours.”

“Tanaka says the roots were all tangled up, as if they were grown in the same box.”

“Then they must’ve been deliberate choices.” Malcolm frowned, his attention drifting away as he began pondering it over. Gil let him have his silence; Malcolm did all his best thinking in the quiet. His most dangerous, too, of course. Couldn’t overlook the fact. Silence had brought on decisions such as ‘maybe Quantico’ and ‘I’m going to talk to the Surgeon.’

He’d been wasted at the FBI. Truth be known, he was wasted with the NYPD too, but Gil wasn’t about to own it, both out of loyalty to the force and because as soon as Malcolm realized it, they’d probably lose him to an ambiguously acronymed agency who deserved him. 

“What do they mean?” Malcolm finally ventured. 

“Hmm?”

“Flowers all have their own language and meanings, though it differs from culture to culture. When we think of love, we usually think of roses, but in Japan they use forget-me-nots. Maybe it’s the flowers themselves holding the significance.”

“So what do black-eyed Susans and clematises mean?” 

“No idea. Not really my specialty. Let me grab my laptop.” 

There wasn’t an overwhelming consensus. Every site they looked at suggested something different. Black-eyed Susans could mean anything from ‘justice’ to ‘everlasting love.’ Clematises were even more diverse; ingenuity, love of family, safety. Gil could tell the moment Malcolm tipped over from excited to annoyed, and he snapped the laptop shut. 

“Stupid idea anyway,” Malcolm muttered. 

“You’ll figure it out,” Gil said, resting a hand on his shoulder. 

Malcolm leaned into the touch, resting his whole weight against Gil. Malcolm always ran hot, and warmth spread through his dress shirt and into Gil’s side. It was too comfortable. Too tempting to reach out and card his fingers through the delicate silk of Malcolm’s hair. Gil allowed himself a last, selfish moment of contact before drawing away to stand. 

“I should get going.” 

Malcolm opened his mouth, then pursed his lips and bit down on whatever he wanted to say in response. “Of course.” 

“Thanks for the whisky.” 

Malcolm mustered up a sincere smile. “Anytime, Gil.” 

Gil headed back to his empty home and cold shower. 

Another body turned up the next morning. 

* * *

Two more victims showed up practically overnight. The first Malcolm Whitly, aged seventeen. Junior at LoMA.

Dani pinched her lips, trying not to look at the body. She wasn’t squeamish, but kids hit all of them hard. “His parents reported him missing yesterday morning.” 

Malcolm stared at the body and said nothing. It was arranged the same way—same mutilation, same flowers left as a token or decoration or whatever they were supposed to be—and found in yet another empty office space not three blocks away from where they’d found the other Malcolm Whitly. 

The second murder was spaced barely a week apart. Malorie Angelina “Mal” Whitley, was twenty-nine years old; a week and a half from her thirtieth birthday. Unlike the previous two victims—even with gender aside—she bore no resemblance. A statuesque woman of mixed heritage, her skin was a light olive brown and lustrous jheri curls. No way the killer could have suspected for a moment she was the Surgeon’s son at a cursory glance, and any in-depth research would have confirmed her recent immigration from the UK. In the end, it hadn’t mattered: she’d ended up receiving the same treatment.

“Not a coincidence, then,” Malcolm whispered. “This isn’t about finding the Surgeon’s son.” 

“What’s it about then?” Gil asked. 

“Wiping Mal Whitlys off the Earth. All of them. So that none of them have the chance to betray their father.”

“Okay. JT, get protective details expanded to everyone who could possibly be mistaken for a Malcolm Whitly.”

Malcolm’s brow furrowed. “Make sure to include any children.”

Gil’s stomach flip-flopped. “You heard him.”

As they walked out, Malcolm brushed against Gil’s arm. “You don’t have to include me in that, you know.”

“Like hell.”

“Gil, whoever this is, he’s only aiming for Malcolm Whitlys. Or, in this case, ‘Mal’ Whitlys. Killing me wouldn’t serve his purpose. Every piece of ID I have says ‘Bright.’ I’m not the target. These are all symbolic gestures towards appeasing the Surgeon and getting justice for his imprisonment.”

“And you don’t think the greatest justice would be to get his hands on the original Malcolm Whitly?”

“No, because in his mind,  _ all _ of the victims are the original Malcolm Whitly. Every life he takes is an offering for the Surgeon, and the offerings have to meet his standards.” Malcolm leaned in. “He doesn’t care if he gets the original. I’m safe.”

“Awfully big assumptions there, Bright,” Gil said.

Malcolm’s face shuttered. “Mine to make. I need to go have a conversation with someone,” Malcolm muttered absently. 

Gil frowned. “I’ll come with you.” 

Malcolm looked horrified by the prospect. “No offense, Gil, but I’d rather drop acid with Dani again than let you within a hundred feet of him.” 

Instead of feeling offended, Gil decided to give some small consideration to the warmth in his gut. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Malcolm visiting his father alone, but he hadn’t been overjoyed the first dozen times, either. Or even before Malcolm had come to work with him, when he’d been a babyfaced University freshman and thought spending time with his old man was a way to get ahead on his studies. At this point, forbidding him to do it would only mean he’d do it more often. Maybe if Jessica had figured it out sooner, she could’ve avoided Malcolm leaping to the conclusion she’d somehow been complicit. 

“Let me know how it goes,” Gil said, quietly. 

Malcolm blinked owlishly, but nodded and scurried off. 

Once his was gone, Gil pinned JT and Dani with the full force of his attention. “We get this thing figured out ASAP. I’m not losing our profiler to someone hunting a name.” 

“But they’re not hunting his name,” Dani pointed out. “He doesn’t go by ‘Whitly’ anymore. If the killer is only after men with the same name, why consider Malcolm a target?” 

“I’m not willing to risk his life on a piece of paper claiming his surname’s Bright,” Gil replied. 

* * *

After his father’s lengthy stay in solitary confinement, Malcolm had done his best to try and limit contact. Part of him ached to walk through the doors and yell and wail and rend his hair to get a reaction—anything to confirm suspicions and thoughts which had been consuming him for years. Willpower alone kept him away; willpower and the hope that the longer he let his father’s need for communication simmer, the more likely it was he could get answers. It wasn’t much of a hope. Really. If a decade without contact wasn’t going to provoke Martin Whitly into breaking his silence, a few weeks certainly wouldn’t do the trick. Unfortunately, despite exhausting every other option, there wasn’t much else to do.

But there were more Malcolm Whitlys left out there at risk of dying, and Malcolm had a suspicion his father would have something to say about it. 

He nodded to Mr. David on his way in, and avoided looking at the meticulously cleaned tiles where Jin had hit the ground. Through the glass, he could see his father tucked back near his empty bookshelf, doubtless displeased the administration had refused to return his personal library. 

He looked up and grinned ear-to-ear when Malcolm stepped inside. 

“Malcolm,” he said, warmly. “I was hoping you’d come by. You haven’t been answering my calls.” It was a fond scolding, as though passed from an indulgent parent to a precocious child. 

“I’ve been busy with work,” Malcolm said, shortly. He refused to fall into their mockery of typical parent-child banter. 

“Have you? They’ve suspended my television privileges for the moment—please tell Ainsley I’m sorry I’ve been missing her broadcasts. It’s so hard to keep up with the two of you when I don’t have access.” 

“I’m not sure she’d be thrilled to hear from you, considering.” 

“I’m happy to remind her that Tevin Standish is a troubled man, and I would never willingly endanger either of you.”

Malcolm could believe it. For certain values of endangerment, anyway. 

His father continued, “So work. Here about a case, then?” 

“In a manner of speaking. I think someone may be trying to kill me.” 

His father’s eyes clouded with anger. “Tell me.” 

“Three bodies have turned up in the past couple weeks. Both of them named Malcolm Whitly, or a derivative thereof.” 

His father’s eyebrow twitched upwards. “Now isn’t that interesting.” 

Not exactly the response Malcolm had been expecting. Malcolm’s tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth as he considered his next words. Carefully. “Is there something you want to tell me?” 

“As a matter of fact.” His father waved him over, gesturing to a small stack of letters seated on his desk. “You should get better at answering my calls.”

Malcolm was always wary of crossing the line separating his father from any potential guests; a bit on-the-nose as far as metaphors went, but all the same. He had never legitimately feared his father on his own behalf. Not the way others did. Those who looked beneath the mask of amiability could only see the monster lurking beneath. Malcolm saw more. He always had. It was what made their relationship so difficult to navigate. 

A small stack of letters with no return address sat on the corner of his desk, and Malcolm grabbed them up to examine. 

Immediately, his eyes were drawn to a diagram of a body, chest hollowed out and filled with flowers. His gaze snapped up to his father, who blinked stoically. 

“You knew. Before I even came in here.” 

“From now on, I think it would be a good idea for you to pick up when I call. Wouldn’t you agree?” His father’s eyebrows perked, the smallest hint of an expectant smile on his face. “Now, then. I expect Lieutenant Arroyo will look to have you placed in protective detail. Tell him I’m available to consult, if he needs a competent profiler to work with him on this.”

“No,” Malcolm whispered. 

“Yes, Malcolm. This killer—my ‘Protégé,’ by how he signs his letters—isn’t going to be content with substitutes for much longer.”

A mission-based spree killer, Malcolm thought, briefly scanning at the letters. His father was right. He wasn’t going to be content with substitutes much longer. And while the letters seemed to imply he was unaware of Malcolm’s name change, it wouldn’t be too much much work to dig the information up. More people would die, and soon, if he couldn’t locate this… Protégé Killer, and quickly.

“I can’t shuffle myself out of the public eye. There are other Malcolm Whitlys the killer could target in the meantime.” 

“I’m sure Lieutenant Arroyo will arrange for them to be protected. He should do the same for you.” His father’s face twisted, as though he’d bitten into something sour. 

“He wants to. I’ve been putting him off.”

The creases in his father’s face deepened. “If you’re going to replace me with another father figure, Malcolm, you could at least have the decency to respect the one you’ve chosen.” 

“He’s not my father!” Malcolm snapped. He winced, wishing he’d bolted his mouth shut. His father could read a thousand things into Malcolm’s reaction, and knowing Martin Whitly, he wouldn’t waste a single second doing so. 

His father’s eyebrows shot up. “It’s like that, is it? I’ll admit to being somewhat surprised. Then again, from what I recall, he’s not a bad-looking specimen of humanity. A bit middle of the road, but then again, your mother’s parents weren’t my biggest fans, either.” 

“You drop this, or I leave.” 

“Malcolm, all I want is for you to find a small measure of happiness. What sort of father would I be if I couldn’t encourage you when you finally had didn'ta chance of it?” 

Malcolm refocused his gaze on the papers in his hand. He really,  _ really _ , didn’t need this right now. His feelings for Gil were muddled up and confusing and impossible to figure out. An MC Escher painting of emotions. He could walk all the corridors of a maze and never find a satisfying answer. Especially not when Gil would never… 

“I need to get these to forensics,” Malcolm said, quietly. 

“Let me know what you find, won’t you? I’d say I’m certainly involved at this point in proceedings. The bouquets themselves pretty much tell it all.”

Malcolm’s brow creased. “What are they saying?” 

“Well,they’re saying the killer wants justice for his father. Or, rather, the man he believes is his father.” His father offered up a self-deprecating smile as honest as an email from a Nigerian prince promising riches beyond belief. “Me.”

* * *

Four Malcolm Whitlys left in NYC. Six if you counted Jersey, which Gil was inclined to do out of deep-set paranoia. All of them now had protective detail, and no one seemed to be missing save  _ his  _ Malcolm, who had yet to return from his visit to Claremont. Gil was trying, and failing, not to worry about it. 

_ Call me when you get home. _

He’d sent the text an hour ago. No response. Unease tightly coiled around his stomach, Gil reached for the latest cup his endless string of coffee. It probably made more sense to get an IV. Easier on the gut, too. 

Gil didn’t quite jump out of his seat when his phone finally pinged, but it was a close call. 

_ clematis = filial piety brown eyed susans = justice  _

_ the surgeon has a fan _

Gil stared at the text for a moment and then stood. 

He arrived at Malcolm’s apartment only half an hour later, relieved the nighttime traffic had eased up enough to avoid the crushing gridlock he usually dealt with when visiting Malcolm’s side of town. He nodded to the two plainclothes parked across the street—illegally, he noted with a wry quirk of an eyebrow before turning his attention back to the building. Only a single light lit up the recently replaced front window, but he somehow doubted Malcolm had made it to bed yet. 

Sure enough, when he knocked, Malcolm answered only moments later. 

“He’s been receiving fan mail,” Malcolm said without preamble. 

Gil stepped inside. “I though that was  _ de rigueur  _ for high profile killers.” Bundy had received hundreds of love letters throughout his time in prison, and Martin Whitly was at least as charming. He’d never broken the illusion of being an amiable, conscientious member of society who’d just happened to strip the skin of a woman’s face using a vegetable peeler. 

“He’s been receiving fan mail from someone who blames me for his incarceration and is trying to hunt me down.” 

Ah, rage. Welcome back, old friend. “And he never thought it was a good idea to warn you?” 

Malcolm shifted guiltily. “He tried. I’ve been ignoring his calls for the last few weeks. Haven’t listened to any of the voicemails either.” 

Gil trailed him up the stairs. The single light was the dim overhead in his kitchen, illuminating a line of six pieces of paper spread out in front of one of the lonely barstools pulled up to the kitchen island. A pineapple flavoured Bicardi cooler was open next to them. Gil’s lips twitched, even as he convinced himself that this was definitely not the time. 

One of the letters had a crudely-drawn picture of a body with flowers growing out of the chest. No doubt this was the killer, then. They hadn’t released any details to the press. 

“‘ _ Dear Father _ ,’” Gil read. He paused. “Seriously?” 

“No. Martin Whitly would never have a secret child. He prides himself too much on his parenting acumen.” Malcolm swallowed down a bitter tilt to his lips and grabbed up his drink. “If he’d had a child out of wedlock, they wouldn’t have been kept a secret. Probably would’ve lived with us, if I’m being honest. Been there at every birthday party and Christmas dinner.” 

“Your mom would’ve been okay with that?” 

Malcolm snorted. “Not in the slightest. Still would’ve happened.” 

Gil returned his attention to the letter. There was a frenetic energy most serial killer communiques shared; if they were addressed to the police, they’d mock their incompetence, or brag about upcoming plans. These ones had a different vibe. He glanced at Malcolm, who nodded. 

“He’s eager for approval, and thinks the best way to get it is through insinuating himself as the favourite son. He’s not sure if he’s found me yet, at least. A lot of details about me were kept out of the press during the Surgeon’s trial. But he knows my name, and he’s guessed my approximate age. All this to say, I’m not sure if surface details such as age or even race will matter, if he thinks he’s doing his filial duty by eliminating every Malcolm Whitly he can find.” 

“Does your father know about the bodies?” 

Martin’s lips thinned into an unhappy white line. “He does now. He’s offered to help you with the profile, since he thinks I should placed in protective custody until this is over.” 

“Huh. Never thought I’d see the day where I agreed with him.” 

Malcolm’s face twisted up in outrage. “You can’t bench me, Gil.”

“The killer is literally after you. Personally. I probably should’ve pulled you after the first body.”

Malcolm huffed out an angry breath before visibly collecting himself by taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it. “I respectfully disagree. I’m the best chance at finding him. And quickly. If you release a statement about everything, and maybe point the killer towards me—”

“Absolutely not.” 

“Why? It could be the best chance we have.”

“Because I refuse to dangle you like a piece of meat in front of a hungry predator in the hopes that I’m faster.” Gil’s hand seemed to move outside of his control as he cupped the side of Malcolm’s neck. Malcolm’s eyes widened slightly at the touch, and his lips parted. “It’s bad enough when you go half-cocked into danger when you’re not the target.” 

“It’s the job, Gil,” Malcolm whispered. He hesitantly placed his hand over Gil’s, tucking his slender fingers into the spaces between Gil’s own. 

“Not yours,” Gil insisted. “You’re a profiler. Probably the best we’ll ever have. There’s nothing saying you have to be out in the field.” He shook his head. “I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation.” 

“You’ve known me for how long, and you’re surprised?” 

It was a rude reminder Gil was older than Malcolm’s actual father. He began to draw his hand away, but Malcolm held tight. This whole time, their eyes hadn’t broken contact. He was used to reading Malcolm’s expressions: the manic edge to his gaze when he hadn’t slept enough, the feverish certainty when he’d latched onto a previously-overlooked detail. He wasn’t used to the warmth seated there now. Maybe a fraction of it, whenever Malcolm talked about Ainsley; a pond compared to the ocean of affection now brimming in his eyes.

“Malcolm—”

He probably shouldn’t have been surprised when Malcolm closed the scant distance between them, tucking himself into Gil’s body and cautiously pressing their lips together. His heart seemed to trip over itself between beats, his brain careening into the hyper-focus Gil brought to bear during investigations. Malcolm smelled of his absurdly spicy cologne and hospital disinfectant. He tasted like pineapples and rum. His hand was trembling where it covered Gil’s. 

Gil pulled away first. Malcolm stared at him, trusting and warm yet still so fucking vulnerable it made Gil’s stomach twist. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Malcolm said. His voice was a whisper, but it drummed its way into Gil’s head with the relentless smack of a wrecking ball. 

“Yeah. Right.” He was not going to be crushed by this. He and Malcolm needed to maintain a decent working relationship, and if Malcolm wasn’t prepared to pursue anything else, Gil could respect the decision. Needed to encourage it, in fact. Didn’t help how his back teeth suddenly began grinding against each other. Gil pulled his hand away and stepped back. “I should probably go.” 

Malcolm looked down, nodding. 

“Bring this stuff to the station tomorrow,” Gil said gently, gesturing at the collection of letters. “We’ll run forensics on them. See if there’s anything the killer left behind.” 

“I doubt it. From everything I’ve read, he’s a meticulous bastard.” He smiled wanly, without any real amusement. “He’d feel it a fitting tribute to the Surgeon. All of the letters indicate he blames me and me alone for him getting caught. He’d see mistakes such as leaving evidence behind to be disrespectful, or unworthy of the Surgeon’s legacy.” 

“Legacy,” Gil repeated with a snort. Malcolm shrugged and shadowed down after him to the door. 

“You aren’t going to force me into protective custody, are you?” Malcolm asked quietly. 

“If I don’t, and something happens to you, it’s gonna be hard for me to get over it. But we can discuss it tomorrow,” Gil replied. 

Obviously unhappy, Malcolm nodded. 

Gil waited until he heard the door lock behind him to return to his car. Even then, he sat quietly until he saw Malcolm’s lights flicker off before finally heading home. 

* * *

The morning dawned crisp, the pavement still slightly damp from the scattered showers of the night before, leaving the scent of petrichor layered over the other smells of the city. All of which were noted and then disregarded by Malcolm as he excoriated himself during a morning trip to the corner bodega, the steps of another pedestrian echoing behind him.

“‘I shouldn’t have don’t that?’” Malcolm repeated to himself for the umpteenth time. “ _ ‘I shouldn’t have done that?!’ _ ”

Jury was out on whether he was the biggest idiot in the city—which, considering the population of NYC, made the sheer volume of stupid required fairly substantial—or had lost complete control of the neural pathways between his brain and his mouth. He couldn’t decide what he’d prefer to think. Probably the idiot option; at least idiocy could be addressed. Hopefully before Gil gave up on him for good. 

He paused at a crossing light, and heard footsteps slow behind him. A larger person, judging from the weight of their fall against the concrete. Malcolm glanced at his watch. 8:45am. He’d been expecting this all night; it’d taken the morning walk to finally engage. 

Couldn’t show his hand yet. There weren’t sufficient traffic cams for them to follow his movements if he was grabbed here. 

Malcolm plucked his phone from his pocket to send Gil a quick text. 

_ about to be grabbed _

The light changed and Malcolm crossed the street. His phone began buzzing incessantly in his pocket. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Malcolm repeated, calmer than he’d been since Gil had walked out of his apartment the night before. “I should have waited until we were in a less charged moment, where we were both thinking clearly and could enter into this with the right expectations.”

There. Better. Dr. Le Deux would’ve been proud. And maybe after they’d collared the Protégé Killer, he’d take the time to say it properly. 

The steps were closing in on him. 

It wasn’t much of a plan, honestly. And a lot of it hinged on Gil being able to identify the suspect and follow the traffic cameras. Malcolm doubted the Protégé would kill him immediately; all his other victims had been substitutes to be attacked and disposed of as quickly as possible. Malcolm was the real target. The killer would take his time. 

He swung around at the last minute and held up his camera to snap a quick picture. “Say cheese.” 

He blanched when he saw the scarf wrapped around the Protégé’s face. He hadn’t factored it into the plan. 

A crowbar swung at his head, and Malcolm spiralled down into blackness. 

* * *

Gil had never personally visited Martin Whitly in Claremont. It had seemed inappropriate at best, when he’d done everything in his power to try and get the insanity plea thrown out in favour of a real prison sentence. It galled him to know Whitly was surrounded by books and creature comforts when the families of his victims were still living with the trauma of his actions, even two decades later. Had it been up to Gil, Whitly would’ve been dropped into a medieval oubliette and forgotten. The fact Gil had almost ended up as one of his victims—one more in a string of vanished corpses, if it weren’t for Malcolm—never strayed far from his mind. 

Seeing his cell stripped bare made everything somewhat more palatable.

Whitly looked surprised to see him when Gil appeared at his door. 

“I was expecting Malcolm,” Whitly said when Gil stepped inside. Gil couldn’t help but look at the tether keeping him leashed to the wall. A reminder he wasn’t going anywhere. 

“I bet you were,” Gil muttered. He’d never wanted to throw Malcolm back into Whitly’s sphere of influence, and his stomach churned with the knowledge that he’d benefitted from their relationship, as twisted as it was. If he’d forbidden it, people would be dead. It had been worth the price. He’d only need to repeat the thought to himself a hundred more times to start believing it. 

Whitly regarded him closely. “You know, Lieutenant Arroyo, I wasn’t thrilled to know how close Malcolm was to someone such as yourself. Boring. Pedestrian. Probably promoted due to tenure rather than merit. You did have to rely on a child to catch a serial killer, after all. How embarrassing for a seasoned member of law enforcement. It’s actually comforting to know he views you as a sexual partner instead of a father figure. I would be far less sanguine to think he’d attempted to replace me with someone as depressingly mediocre.” 

Gil glowered. 

“No need to look sullen. All any parent wants for their child is to be loved and respected by their partners. Jessica and I tried to model the way as best we could, but life unfortunately tends to get in the way.” 

“Malcolm’s missing,” Gil interrupted.

Whitly blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

“He was taken this morning between the hours of eight and nine. We suspect it’s the Protégé killer.” 

Whitly’s entire demeanour changed, shifting from his mask of human affability to darker, twisted animality. From doctor to killer. His eyes clouded with such rage Gil almost took a step back, regardless that he was behind the line marking the boundaries of Whitly’s freedom.

Whitly loosed a half-growl. “Let me make something clear to you, Lieutenant. Whoever is perpetrating these murders is not my protégé. I would never condone acts of someone out to harm my family.”

No, he was more than capable of harming his family all on his own. Gil maintained a professional neutrality as he continued, “I need to know what you and Malcolm discussed about the case. He said you’d offered some insight when he came to collect the letters.”

“Letters detailing the ways the Protégé planned to kill him!” Martin shouted. “I told him he needed to be careful. That there was no way the Protégé would be content with substitutes instead of the real thing.” 

“Funny, he seemed to think he was perfectly safe since he’d changed his last name.”

Whitly’s face twisted up further. “I would never put Malcolm in danger, if that’s what you’re implying.” He stalked over to his desk and picked up a piece of paper. “I received another letter yesterday. I called him a hundred times to warn him.” His lips pinched. 

He held the letter out to Gil, as if tempting him to cross the line. Gil waited until Whitly stepped close enough to pass it over. 

The page was filled with more of the Protégé’s rants; promises to Whitly to behave as befitted a son of the Surgeon, wishes for ‘his father’s’ freedom. The last line caught Gil’s attention. 

“ _ ‘I have found the way to make you proud of me, and prove myself your truest and only son,’ _ ” Gil read aloud. He frowned. “He knew about Malcolm, then.”

“And now my boy is missing.” Whitly pinned Gil with a hard look. “You knew Malcolm’s life was at risk, and you left him unprotected.” 

“He told me he was safe.” Gil’s jaw clenched. “Malcolm must’ve known the killer wouldn’t settle for anyone but him.” How many times had he thrown himself into a killer’s path before? Another one of his kamikaze habits Gil had indulged because it got them results. 

“You need to get me out of here,” Whitly said. 

Gil’s eyes shot up to the other man’s face. “Absolutely not.” 

“Listen, Lieutenant Arroyo, I’m the only one who can bring Malcolm home safe, and I can’t do it from here.” 

“How do you figure?” 

“The Protégé wants to impress me, and he’ll jump at the chance to do it in person. Take me out. Make it public knowledge I’m being freed, and he’ll find a way to get to me. If we do it quick enough, we might even manage before anything happens to Malcolm.” 

“Out of the question,” Gil snapped. 

“I’m going to retrieve my son, Lieutenant. The only influence you have in this decision is how many people die between me and the front door.” 

“I’ll have you slapped back in solitary.” 

“Please. There are at least two dozen different ways I’ve figured out how to get out of there, and that’s without preplanning.”

“If it would be such a cakewalk to get yourself out of here, why haven’t you done it before now?” Gil demanded. 

“You’re acting under a severe misconception, Lieutenant. I’m not here on sufferance of the state. I’m here because I want to be able to communicate with my family and such a thing would be significantly more difficult on the lam.” 

The words sent a chill down Gil’s spine, but he forced it down. It had to be bullshit. Whitly was simply a serial killer, not some demented supervillain capable of what he was suggesting. He could have words with the administration on his way out. Get extra security measures put in place. Even if Whitly wasn’t simply boasting, he couldn’t have accounted for the measures Gil would see put in place to keep him confined. 

But even with this newest letter, what other leads did they have? There was nothing connecting the places the Protégé was dropping the bodies, and Malcolm’s profile hadn’t given them anything concrete. His shattered cellphone had been located where he’d been taken, but there hadn’t been any sign of him being moved—while the traffic cameras had caught a black panel van, it seemed to have disappeared between intersections, and the license plate had been reported stolen from another vehicle weeks ago. Whitly might be the only real chance they had of catching the Protégé and bringing Malcolm back safe. 

They stared at each other, Whitly’s eyes a burning fire. Gil, for a moment, wanted to dare him to do it. To try and break out, and find out firsthand the consequences that would inevitably follow. He held back for Malcolm’s sake; Malcolm was already fucked up enough over his father’s murders—he didn’t need any more bodies added to the tally plaguing his conscience. 

It was a terrible idea. 

But, for Malcolm, Gil was willing to entertain terrible. 

“I’ll arrange to have you brought to the station on a twenty-four-hour pass. Let me be clear: if you put a single toe out of line, I am going to make sure the next time Malcolm sees you, there’ll be a tag on it.” 

“I appreciate the fact you’re protective of my boy, Lieutenant,” Whitly said. A sarcastic shadow of his usual smile crept across his face. “Get me out of here.” 

* * *

Malcolm dreamed about the Protégé Killer. He dreamed about himself—or was it his identical twin?—bitterly mumbling to himself as he picked out victims one by one. He dreamed about holding an oversized lopper and using it to snip away the pesky rib bones getting in the way of his vision. In his dream, the victims were still alive. Alive and complaining about how much it itched to have their torsos hollowed out to make room for his beautiful tribute to Father. Father would be proud of him. Father would know Malcolm had proved himself a worthy successor to his name. Father wouldn’t need any other sons. Especially not traitorous vermin who’d betrayed him. 

Mal Whitly looked up at him from her place on the floor. “You’ll never be his son,” she told him. 

“I’m his only son,” Malcolm informed her. He picked up the rib and dropped it in a bucket next to him. He smiled at her, a broad grin alien on his face. 

Malcolm snipped away another rib.

“We’re the same.” 

Malcolm snapped back to consciousness and winced at the throbbing behind his eyes. He was honestly shocked he’d woken up at all. He wasn’t expecting to. Everything about the Protégé suggested he killed his victims quickly instead of dragging it out. Before today, Malcolm wouldn’t have guessed he’d keep them alive for any length of time beyond transporting them from where they’d been taken to where they’d been killed. 

Maybe because he hadn’t found the right victim. 

Despite the headache, Malcolm forced himself to look around. He hadn’t expected the sort of cinematic dungeon popularized by poor representations of BDSM. If anything, he’d anticipated another bland office setting, banal and empty, and only given character by virtue of being the drop point for a spree killer. 

He was in a basement, from what he could tell. Probably residential, based on the size of the space and the presence of the aging washer-dryer combo sitting in the corner. The walls were framed in with metal studs and roughed-in electrical, as though the homeowner had started a DIY project and left it perpetually unfinished. There was no sign of blood on the walls or the bare concrete flooring… this couldn’t be the killing ground. Or hadn’t been, before now. Maybe, now that he had the real thing, he wanted to bring everything home.

Across the room, a short flight of five stairs led to the room’s only exit—a slightly ajar door the only source of the basement’s dim lighting. The stairs were less than twenty feet away, an easy walk if he could force himself to his feet. His arms ached, secured behind him with what he expected to be industrial zip ties, but he could still feel his hands. Small blessings. When he tried to stand, nausea and dizziness smacked into him with the force of a sledgehammer, and he slumped back over. He couldn’t remember being taken—how the Protégé had taken him down—but he was fairly certain the splitting pain in his head wasn’t a typical migraine. 

He groaned, audibly, and suddenly heard the sounds of footsteps from the floor above. 

The door opened further, and the sudden influx of additional light stabbed into Malcolm’s head. He winced through it to get a look at his captor, and experienced a sudden rush of confused vertigo when, instead of his own face, he found a stranger looking back at him. Of course he wasn’t the killer. Of course. 

The Protégé was at least a decade older than Malcolm, and while he expected to recognize the other man, there wasn’t anything familiar about him. He was, for all intents and purposes, a staid forty-something with a slight gut and beefy arms. His hair was thinning around a sharp widow’s peak, and deep creases cut the skin next to his eyes and mouth. He kept his distance from Malcolm, considering him with rapt attention from about ten feet away. 

“You’re short,” the Protégé finally said. His voice was deep, but lacked anything resembling emotion. 

“You’re heterochromatic,” Malcolm commented. It was obvious even in the dim light; one eye was significantly lighter than the other. “Since we’re making observations about each other.” 

“I expected you to be taller,” the Protégé continued, still expressionless. It was all wrong; his killings had been a cry for acceptance, a passionate need to be acknowledged by a parental figure. Mission-based killers were excited by the prospect of fulfilling their purpose. They weren’t quiet about it. Talking to Malcolm—being agonizingly close to getting what he wanted—should’ve made him exuberant. Nothing resembling the empty shell crouched down before him. 

The Protégé went back to mute staring, and Malcolm shifted uncomfortably. His head still hurt, and for all it was clouding his thoughts, he couldn’t help but wonder why he was still alive. The Protégé had been looking for him for weeks. Possibly longer, if he’d finally decided to start going after other people who shared Malcolm’s name after failing to find Malcolm in the first place. 

The Protégé finally straightened and stepped back towards the door. 

“Father isn’t going to be happy about this,” Malcolm chanced. 

The Protégé paused. 

“He doesn’t appreciate people threatening the family,” Malcolm continued. He had the killer’s attention; he needed to play this safe. “He’d tell you himself, if he could.” 

“He has told me. It’s why you’re still alive,” the Protégé stated. There was finally something in his voice. Resentment? Anger? Either could be dangerous, if he chose to take it out on Malcolm. 

Malcolm frowned. “What do you mean?” His father couldn’t have been in contact with the Protégé. Malcolm was willing to believe almost anything about the depravities Martin Whitly had committed, but couldn’t believe he would put their family in danger. 

“Father is coming,” the Protégé said. Emotion continued to creep back into his voice. A certainty which made Malcolm’s inside seize with anxiety.

“He’s locked up,” Malcolm stated. His father couldn’t go anywhere. There was no way. 

“Father is coming,” the Protégé repeated. 

He left the basement, and closed the door firmly behind himself. The snick of a lock sliding into place followed, and Martin cursed under his breath. There were no windows, no other doors. Nothing beyond a small drain in the floor next to the washing machine. 

“Father is coming,” Malcolm repeated to himself. His lips twitched in grim amusement. Hopefully he’d hurry up. 

* * *

“This isn’t going to work. I need to be somewhere more exposed if we want him to try and grab me,” Whitly said. 

JT and Dani stared harder at the whiteboard than they’d ever focused on anything in their lives. Gil had given them strict orders to ignore Whitly and everything he said. It was mildly gratifying to know they’d been listening. 

“No one is going to abduct me from a police station,” Whitly continued. 

“We don’t want him to abduct you,” Gil reminded him. “We want him to  _ try  _ and abduct you, and use him to find Malcolm.” 

“All the same. He’s not going to try anything while I’m here.” The bastard looked smug at the prospect. He’d gotten everything he wanted thus far; a day pass from his institutionalization, the media whipped into a near frenzy over his involvement with the case, and—most importantly, as far as she seemed to be concerned—Gil’s voicemail blowing up with angry calls from Jessica Whitly. 

“I’m not letting you loose,” Gil told him. He was desperate, not stupid. Though the longer Malcolm was gone, the harder it was to distinguish between the two, hence the department’s temporary guest. 

“You don’t have to. Here’s a thought: take me to the first crime scene. I know a young reporter who’d be excited to tell the world about our partnership. Live, even. It’ll get him moving, and then all we’d have to do is wait.”

“We have no way of knowing he’d even show up. Not to mention the lives we’d be putting at stake,” Gil said. Anyone escorting Whitly would be in danger of getting caught off guard by the Protégé Killer. Not to mention Whitly himself. Things only needed to go sideways by a hair for this entire situation to turn into a clusterfuck of gigantic proportions. 

“I’m not concerned about anyone’s life but Malcolm’s,” Whitly told him. At least he was being honest. 

“Well, I don’t have the same problem,” Gil replied. 

Whitly glared. As part of the measures to which he’d been subjected in order to secure his release, his hands were tightly secured to his waist, allowing for less than six inches of movement around him. Two of the hospital’s security attendants were stationed at the door to their boardroom, and even with the additional security, everyone was on high alert. The entire precinct seemed to be holding their breaths, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“The Protégé isn’t crazy. He’s on a mission to please me. He’s not going to walk into a police station to try and free me, because he would understand the attempt would end with both of us jailed. I need to be somewhere he feels he can get to me, otherwise this entire exercise is going to be fruitless for everyone.” 

Gil grit his teeth, hating how sane the plan was beginning to sound. He’d hated it from the moment he’d authorized Whitly’s provisional release. And he really hated the fact Whitly was in control of the situation. Because he was right; there was no way their guy was going to brazenly stroll into the station, which Whitly knew better than anyone. 

But there was also no way Gil was going to let Whitly continue to believe he held all the trump cards. “Dani, get McCrimmon from the Times on the phone. Let him know we’re taking Dr. Whitly to review the crimes scenes one at a time this afternoon, and we anticipate he’ll be returned to custody in time for dinner.”

“Oh good, tonight is chicken Florentine, and I’d hate to miss it,” Whitly said with a slight pull of his lips. 

Dani ignored him, though he could tell from the twitch at the left of her mouth it was through willpower alone. “On it, boss.” 

“We should have about a three-hour window. I want plainclothes stationed close enough to the entrances to the buildings they can get their hands on anyone in or out, and at least one sniper with a clear line of site on any and all exits.”

Dani and JT hustled out of the room, leaving Gil alone with Whitly. 

“Wouldn’t utilizing snipers be counterintuitive if we plan to bring the killer in alive?” Whitly asked.

Gil regarded him coldly. “They’re not going to be aiming for the Protégé.” 

Whitly tilted his head, looking impressed despite himself. 

They were out the door an hour later, giving their contact at the Times a chance to update his social media platforms with their plans. The public was only vaguely aware of the killer—no specifics on victims or crime scene locations—but he had no doubt things were about to blow up with the knowledge that Whitly was consulting outside of his usual accommodations. 

Gil knew the moment things went live when his phone lit up with yet another call from Jessica. He ignored it, as he had all the others, and stuck his phone on silent for the rest of the afternoon. 

“Interesting choice of venue,” Whitly commented as they pulled up in front of the first office building. “An unfortunate victim of the ongoing gentrification of the city, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Gil’s jaw clenched. At this rate, he was going to need a mouthguard. 

They led Whitly to the crime scene, still taped off. From what Gil heard, the leaser was trying to finagle their way out of the contract. Considering how much blood had soaked into the carpet, he wasn’t surprised. The stains weren’t going anywhere. 

“He killed them here?” he asked. 

“Cut them up, anyway,” JT told him. Gil shot him a withering look and JT spun around to investigate a blank span of wall across the room. 

“No sign of the viscera?” 

“Do I need to remind you you’re not actually consulting on this case?” Gil demanded. 

“I’m here anyway. Might as well offer my insights. One might say I have a unique point of view.” Whitly smiled expansively, and Gil’s hand clenched into a fist at his side. 

“Malcolm also has a unique point of view. And unlike you, he can look at a crime scene without being envious of the killer,” Gil snapped.

Malcolm’s smile sharpened. “You sure, Lieutenant?” 

Before Gil could reply, his radio sparked to life. One of the officers planted outside. “We have movement at the east corner of the building. Single white male carrying a duffle bag.” 

Gil waved at Dani and JT. “Take up position at the stairs.” They’d had the building manager cut power to the elevator shortly before arriving. There were two stairwells they had to account for. He grabbed his radio. “Once the suspect has entered the building, position yourselves at the bottom of both stairwells to prevent potential escape.” 

“You’re very good at this, Lieutenant. It’s truly a joy to watch you work.” 

“Shut up, Whitly,” Gil growled. He unclipped the safety catch on his holster. “Everyone in position?” 

Affirmatives came back across the board. Gil positioned himself next to the door, half an eye on Whitly as the other man began wandering the breadth of the room. There wasn’t much to see; they’d thoroughly swept the space. He allowed himself to fall into the adrenaline-fuelled focus, long trained into him over years of service. He kept his attention focused on the door, waiting for his radio to confirm the Protégé had been captured. 

“I’ve lost sight of the target,” one of the patrolmen reported. Gil cursed under his breath. “Duffle bag has been left abandoned in the stairwell.” 

“No eyes on the target from here,” Dani said. 

“Smoke coming from the duffle bag!” 

“Clear the building,” Gil ordered. “I cannot move locations. Repeat, I cannot move locations. Cover all exits and make sure he doesn’t escape.” 

“He never planned to escape, Lieutenant,” Whitly said. 

Gil turned in time to see a piece of wood, pried from one of the window frames, flying towards his face. It cracked the underside of his jaw, snapped his head backwards and directly into the wall behind him. He flopped to the ground, ears ringing from the stunning blow. Whitly stood over him, the wood still clenched in his secured hands. He must’ve used his hips to drive the wood hard enough to take him out. 

“The Protégé is going to be gunned down outside the building,” Whitly said. He squatted down next to Gil’s head, and eased his gun away from his nerveless fingers. Next he fished the keys to his cuffs out of Gil’s pocket and deftly unlocked them. “Suicide by cop. Not a great way to go—not one I would’ve picked anyway. Before it happens, he’s going to set off a small explosive device in his van. It should be parked about a block and a half away, close enough to get everyone’s attention, and far enough away to draw them back.” 

Gil opened his mouth to speak, but black was pooling before his eyes, and he struggled to keep them open. 

“I never lied to you, Lieutenant. It’s far easier to keep in touch with my family from Claremont. But things have changed.” 

He considered Gil for a long moment. 

“It would probably be easiest just to kill you,” Whitly said with a sigh. 

A sound not unlike a firework exploding came from the east side of the building, followed by the telltale pops of weapons discharge.

“But Malcolm wouldn’t forgive me. Or, at least, it’d take longer than I want.” He patted Gil’s shoulder. “Your lucky day, Lieutenant. I want you to remember, in case you cross paths again, that you owe Malcolm your life. Something to ponder.” 

He picked the wood up again and brought it barrelling down. 

* * *

“Father is coming,” Malcolm told himself in his dreams. 

He was running. To something? Away from something? Impossible to tell. He passed a waterfall, running along intersecting cobblestone pathways, paradoxically arriving at the top of the fall itself only seconds later. Trapped. No where else to go. 

Father was coming.

Malcolm whipped around. But Martin Whitly wasn’t behind him. No. It was Gil. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Gil told him. 

Gil reached out for him, and Malcolm jumped backwards. He tumbled over the waterfall, down down down past the walkway he’d taken, past a waterwheel, and dropping into a frigid pool below. He floated in the turbid water, but made no effort to swim. Not even to kick his legs. 

He needed to be patient.

Father was coming. 

Malcolm woke with a start, the smell of ammonium carbonate still stinging his nostrils. He blinked against the light cast from the nearby door, until his gaze finally focused on the man in front of him. 

“Dad,” he whispered, relief sweeping through him quickly as water over the crest of the falls. 

His father smiled. “There he is.” He slid a hand under Malcolm’s arm and eased him to sitting. “Gave me a bit of a scare, there, my boy. You weren’t responding to mild stimulus.” He ran a warm hand across Malcolm’s temple. “He got you pretty good, huh? Well, we’ll fix that up.” 

“We?” Malcolm blinked. “Gil?” His head hadn’t hurt this much last time he’d woken up. He was having a hard time remembering anything about it, but he was pretty sure.

“No, I’m afraid Lieutenant Arroyo won’t be joining us. Maybe if you’d settled on someone outside of law enforcement, but you’ve never been the one to take the easy path, have you?” He offered Malcolm a glass of water, but meted it out in small drams instead of letting Malcolm chug it the way he wanted. “Here we are. Time to get going, now.” 

“Going?” 

“Going.” 

His father helped him up, with the strong arms Malcolm remembered from his childhood bracing him as Malcolm wobbled in place. It was nice. He was wearing such a warm cardigan; Malcolm could feel his body heat through his side. It reminded him of the times they’d sat together, Malcolm in his father’s lap with a book balanced on his knees as his father read aloud over Malcolm’s shoulder.  _ "We be of one blood, ye and I." _ He drifted listlessly into the feeling. Into the memory. 

“Stairs, now. Easy does it.” 

They managed to get to the main floor, though Malcolm had to stop at the top step as his head pounded and he swayed dizzily in place. 

He blinked at the harsh halogen lights cast overhead. They were in a kitchen. Not their kitchen. His mother never would’ve condoned the ugly wallpaper covering every surface. He blinked his way through the fogginess until his eyes landed on a Formica-covered kitchen island, and he spotted the flower boxes on top. They were pretty. Clematis and black-eyed Susans. Filial piety and justice. 

Oh fuck. 

He yelled and tried to pull away, but his father’s hold tightened. 

“Calm down, Malcolm. You’re going to aggravate your concussion if you’re not careful.” 

“How did you get here?” Malcolm demanded. 

“You know, Claremont has become a bit less accommodating since the incident with Ainsley and Jin, and I decided it was time to move on.” 

“You wrote the notes yourself?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have terrible handwriting. If I’d written them, no one would’ve been able to understand them.” 

“Then how—”

“Notoriety brings a certain kind of person knocking at your door. You just need to find the right ones to provide the right opportunities.” 

Malcolm strained against the tight hold, and his father huffed out an annoyed breath. “You couldn’t have gotten letters out. They check your mail.”

“You and I both know there are simple ways of circumventing the screening process. I imagine you’re thinking of a dozen already.” Half a dozen, assuming he hadn’t had an accomplice, but the point was sound. Malcolm tried again to pull away. “Enough of that. Your friends in the NYPD don’t know about this place yet, but the ID on the Protégé is going to happen at any moment, and we need to be gone.” Malcolm continued to struggle. “If you fall and crack your head, your mother will give me no end of grief.”

Malcolm twisted, and finally his father loosed his hold. Malcolm collapsed and began pulling himself away across the floor. 

“Malcolm, come on. It’s time for us to be a family again.”

Malcolm shook his head and immediately regretted it, groaning through the stab of pain hitting him right behind his eyes. 

“Can’t,” he gasped. “Won’t.” 

His father sighed. Malcolm chanced a look over his shoulder, and saw the other man standing close behind him, arms crossed and looking for all the world indulgent and fond. 

“I’m not going to force you, Malcolm. But I don’t want to leave you alone, either. Who knows what sort of trouble you’d get into without me there to lend a guiding hand?” He chuckled to himself. “All right, even I can admit that sounded ominous.” He crouched down at Malcolm’s side. “Is it wrong for me to want to be around my family? After years of being locked away from you, I finally get the chance to really get to know the amazing man you’ve become. And I don’t want to leave without you. You’re my son, and I love you.” 

_ Love me from way the fuck away _ , Malcolm thought to himself. 

“Gil,” he finally gasped. Gil would follow them, and his father would do something to hurt him. He couldn’t let Gil get hurt. 

His father’s eyes warmed slightly. “Is he what all this is about?” His mouth twisted up in a thoughtful frown. “I suppose I understand. I don’t enjoy being parted from your mother, either.” He tucked his hands under Malcolm’s arms and shifted him up to sitting, bracing him against the kitchen island. They regarded each other, closer than they’d been since his father’s arrest. “I told you I wasn’t a monster, Malcolm. And I suppose it’d be a monstrous act to take you away from someone you love.” 

“Yeah,” Malcolm agreed, moaning around the word. He reached out, grabbing for his father’s hand. When Malcolm caught it, he squeezed his father’s fingers. Hard. “I won’t chase you.” 

His father smiled. “Yes you will.” He leaned forward and kissed Malcolm’s forehead. “I have no doubt.” 

Malcolm’s eyes fluttered shut against the throbbing pain in his head. 

The next thing he knew, there was shouting from all around him. He hummed, but couldn’t quite manage a smile until a familiar voice called out, “kitchen’s clear!” from directly in front of him. 

He forced his eyes open. “Hey, Dani.” 

“I have to ask, was it supposed to be ironic when you chose ‘Bright’ as a last name?” 

His smile crept a smidgen wider, and then he groaned as she leaned in to poke at his head. “Stop.” 

“Ambulance is en route. If you’re lucky, they’ll put you and Gil in different rooms and he won’t read you to filth for this dumb fucking stunt.” 

Malcolm’s eyes widened, his heart lurching in his chest. “Gil’s hurt?” 

Dani looked suddenly cagey. “Yeah. He’ll be fine, though.” 

The arrival of the paramedics forestalled any other questions. 

* * *

Gil was honestly surprised to wake up, despite Whitly’s last promise. His mouth had the telltale, cottony feeling leftover by some impressive painkillers, and while he could feel the slight pressure in his head pointing to one hell of a concussion, the pain was faraway and muted. 

He took stock of the room, and breathed a punched-out sigh of relief when he saw Malcolm sitting up in the bed beside him. 

“Hey,” Malcolm said, immediately noting Gil’s scrutiny. Malcolm had one hell of a bruise on his temple, and a small row of stitches besides, but he wasn’t looking worse for wear. “We’ve got matching concussions. Hurray. We can help keep each other awake.” 

Gil sniffed. “Urban myth. Sleep is the best thing for a concussion.”

“I should call the doctor.” 

“Whitly escaped,” Gil said before Malcolm could do more than twitch towards the call button. There was no doubt in his mind. Then again, if Malcolm was here and relatively unharmed, maybe he’d been apprehended already. Stranger things had happened; a fucking patrolman had been the one to bring down the Surgeon, when all the FBI had been stumped. 

“Yeah,” Malcolm breathed. “The Surgeon is in the wind. My mom is gone, too, but she left a note behind indicating it was of her own free will.” The pull of his brow indicated how unsurprised he was by the revelation. Maybe he’d seen more in the tape than Gil could’ve imagined on his own.

Malcolm’s mouth twitched in a small smile, and Gil had to push away the urge to plant his thumb next to it. He’d been pretty definitively rebuffed. No reason to keep the torch lit.

“Gil—”

Whatever Malcolm was about to say was forestalled by the appearance of a nurse in the doorway. The woman, about forty years old with miles of rough road jading her eyes, checked his vitals, scolded Malcolm for sitting up, and summoned the doctor to look Gil over. 

The doctor decided on an overnight stay for both of them, with promises to review their progress in the morning to determine a lengthier stay was necessary, and swept out as quickly as she’d entered. The nurse lingered a few moments longer, bustling about the room and completely oblivious to the awkward air sitting heavy between Gil and Malcolm. 

When she finally made her own exit, Malcolm sat up again, wincing as he did. “Charged,” he said. “It was too charged. And the timing was all wrong. I shouldn’t have done it, because I should’ve waited. That’s what I meant to say. That’s what I should’ve said. I never meant I shouldn’t’ve done it at all. I should’ve. Definitely. Just not right then.” 

Gil regarded him from his own bed. “You been sitting on this a while, huh?” 

“Well, there were a few moments I was distracted, but yeah. Pretty much since you walked out on me.”

Gil managed a smile and a half-hearted laugh, all he could muster up as whatever new dose of drugs the doctor had stick in his IV threatened to grab hold again. “We’ll talk,” he promised. 

He was out moments later, but not before he caught a glimpse of Malcolm’s pleased grin. 

* * *

The promised—and promising—talk was put on near-indefinite hold once Malcolm and Gil were released from the hospital, and found themselves sucked into the veritable shitstorm following the Surgeon’s escape from custody. 

Malcolm found himself repeating the same message over and over again. “No, I don’t know where he would’ve gone.”  _ Somewhere remote, if he wanted to focus on rebuilding the family. Anyone checked Canada?  _ “I believe my mother is in danger.”  _ Not a chance in hell would he ever hurt her _ . “My sister doesn’t have a relationship with him.”  _ She’d hero-worshipped him since he saved her ex-boyfriend’s life and made her a television superstar. _ Malcolm was surprised she hadn’t followed them in search of her next expose. 

Most importantly, “No. I wasn’t involved in his escape.” Hadn’t tried to prevent it, and wasn’t offering any insights as to how he could be located, but strictly speaking he hadn’t been involved. 

Almost a whole week after he’d been discharged from the hospital, Malcolm finally found himself sitting quietly at home. His phone had been insistently silent for the past six days. Nothing from his mother or the blocked number he associated with the phones in Claremont. 

Ainsley was enraptured with the story, working to spin it as some sort of Bonnie-and-Clyde/Mickey-and-Mallory love story. For the first time in forever, Malcolm felt unmoored. Unequivocally on his own. 

Maybe it wasn’t such a big surprise when he leapt up as soon as he heard a knock at his door. 

Gil was on the other side, a bottle of half-decent whisky in one hand, and…

“Oh, come on,” Malcolm said, accepting the six-pack of strawberry flavoured rum coolers. 

“You’re welcome. If you’re lucky, I won’t tell JT.” 

Malcolm shrugged. “JT strikes me as the kind of man who secretly loves fruity drinks with cute little umbrellas.” 

“Then he’s been lying to all of us by sticking to cheap domestic this whole time.” Gil shrugged off his coat and hung it over the stair railing. 

The air between them was fraught, yet comfortable. An odd contradiction Malcolm mulled over as he hid the rum coolers away in his fridge and grabbed a couple of glasses and his scotch rocks. 

“No word?” he asked. 

Gil shook his head. “Border crossing says they might’ve seen someone matching your father’s description heading north, but the guy was clean-shaven, and the ID passed muster.” 

It would’ve. Mother would’ve sprung for the good-quality fake IDs.

Canada, as Malcolm had expected. He kept his face carefully neutral as he measured out a couple of drams and eased a single droplet of water into each one. The whisky wasn’t bad—peaty enough to be strictly speaking closer to scotch than he generally preferred—but the company was what mattered. 

Gil dropped onto the couch and, after a moment’s hesitation, Malcolm joined him. He sat closer than he’d dared before, but further away than he would’ve liked. Gil merely quirked an eyebrow his way and took a sip of his drink. 

“Long week,” he finally said. 

“Long life,” Malcolm echoed. He brought his own glass to his lips, but let the whisky rest against his lips instead of drinking it. Curiously, he was eager for a clear head. 

How was he supposed to broach this? Was Gil even here for anything more than a touch base? Maybe pick his brain about his father’s disappearance? TIf they had a new case, he wouldn’t have brought liquor with him. Would he? Or maybe it was such an awful case he needed something strong to bolster themselves before diving in. Malcolm thought they were both on paid administrative leave until the end of the weekend, but maybe—

“You think too much,” Gil told him. He cupped a hand around Malcolm’s neck and reeled him in. 

This kiss was much better. Gil tasted of whisky and the latest in an endless supply of cheap breakroom coffee, and Malcolm was delighted. Warm lips pressed against his, slightly chapped and absolutely perfect. Gil’s clever, insistent tongue was everything he’d ever wanted in his life and hadn’t realized. 

When they pulled back, Malcolm grinned. 

“Should I have done that?” Gil asked. 

Malcolm chuckled. “Yes. Definitely. I think our timing has improved.” He hastily reached across Gil to knock on the surface of the coffee table. Just in case. 

Gil caught his hand as it trailed back, and pressed a kiss to the center of Malcolm’s palm. Malcolm shivered, couldn’t help himself, and Gil’s lips trailed from his palm to his wrist, settling directly over his pulse point. 

“I’m a nightmare!” Malcolm blurted out. Gil pulled back, frowning. Malcolm wanted his smile back more than anything, especially the small half one which tended to linger at the corner of his lips. “I never sleep through the night. I toss and turn the entire time. I have night terrors bad enough I once gave my partner a black eye when I thought I was being attacked. I am what could colloquially be termed ‘the trope codifier of daddy issues,’ and my father is a serial killer who is probably going to come waltzing back into my life at an extremely inappropriate moment.” He didn’t even want to get into the laundry list of mental health concerns; hopefully Gil would see reason before he had to. 

“And to add to all this, you still drink those disgusting Bacardi things,” Gil said, smirking. It wasn’t a fair smirk. Malcolm had far too many sexually charged daydreams involving his smirk. After a long moment, it faded from Gil’s face. Malcolm mourned its loss. “Do you want me to read you the laundry list of all the ways I’m a pretty fucked up case myself?” 

“My fucked up beats your fucked up pretty squarely, Gil.” 

Gil gripped Malcolm’s hand tightly in his own, rubbing his thumb across Malcolm’s knuckles. “And I’m still here. If you’re not interested, just tell me. You don’t have to scare me off by reciting all the problems you think are going to get in the way of us.”

_ Us _ . Malcolm hadn’t been part of an us before. Not in the heavy way Gil used the word. 

He leaned down and pressed his lips to the back of Gil’s hand. “I refuse to screw this up.” 

“Neither do I. Think between the two of us we can manage it?” 

Malcolm couldn’t help but smile at their clasped hands. “I hope so.” 

He stood, pulled Gil to his feet, and drew him across the apartment to his bed. 

It was slow, unhurried lovemaking. Thorough, as Malcolm was surprised to find. Gil's strength existed outside of his character. His biceps strained as he pulled Malcolm up, balanced him across his thighs and drove up into him with an unrelenting pace that drew gasps and hitched groans out of Malcolm's mouth. A single, choked-off note settled in his throat, throttling him until his orgasm punched it out of him in a hard shout. Gil followed closely behind, pressing Malcolm down to the mattress and thrusting into him until he came with Malcolm's name on his lips.

Malcolm still dreamed, afterwards. He threw himself into the role of the Protégé, standing over an innumerable number of Mal Whitlys, clipping out their rib bones to remove their organs, and replace them with tributes to Father.

One of the offerings attempted to fight back, but when Malcolm took a swing to put them down, they caught his fist in a tight grip.

He woke with Gil's hand wrapped around his wrist, his free arm still draped across Malcolm's chest.

"I've got you," Gil whispered, holding him tight. "No one else, Malcolm. Just me."

Only Gil.

Malcolm slipped into dreamless sleep. 

* * *

The postcards started arriving about a month after his father’s escape. They were well done; postmarked from all across the country, as though his parents were on some oddly domestic road trip. 

The latest one arrived from California just in time for Christmas. 

_ ‘West is the best place to be, Malcolm. Everything is sunshine. And beautiful oceans. Rarely do we get these kind of sights this back out east. Even Martha’s Vineyard can’t compare. Surely you remember our trips out there? After all, it might’ve been a long time ago, but it’s among my best memories. Figured you might enjoy the reminder. Each day is an adventure. Merry Christmas, my boy. I hope you and Gil are happy together. Love, Dad.’ _

He didn’t bother wondering if the people around them were safe. There hadn’t been reports of unusual disappearances anywhere north of the border, but Malcolm suspected his mother was keeping a tighter leash on his father than she had when they lived in New York. 

Gil looked at him sometimes, as though trying to decide whether or not Malcolm knew more about his father’s disappearance than he was letting on. He never broached the subject, and Malcolm never called him out on it. Because they were happy together. Or at least as close to happy as two relatively damaged people could manage. 

He obligingly passed the postcards off to forensics, confident they wouldn’t find anything, and waited for the next one. If they really wanted to send him something in code, they’d find a better way to do it than an acrostic. He had a hunch that, if he cross-referenced the postcards Ainsley had received with his own, he’d be able to figure out where his parents were. But he hesitated. Maybe because, for the first time, he felt free. His father was no longer locked up, and while the media was relentless in its speculation, they seemed to be leaving him out of it. While the Surgeon was on the run, they were more focused on him, instead of the Surgeon’s children. 

His daughter. 

His son. 

His protégé.

**Author's Note:**

> All comments and kudos are welcomed and deeply appreciated.


End file.
